Burn the Pages
by flawlesspeasant
Summary: Using the courage she finds through writing letters addressed to an anonymous person, Jo finally gains the strength to break away from her old life and start with a fresh new beginning. But finding happiness and new love is hard, especially when the man she's running from has connections everywhere and she doesn't know who to trust...
1. Call Me Guilty

**A/N:** Hey guys! I'm back! Sorry for leaving you guys high and dry the way I did with Terrible Love :( I know I had a lot of people really interested in it and I'm sorry to just discontinue it the way I did. College life just got a little busy and by the time I settled down, I just had no idea where I was taking that story anymore.

But anyway, this is my newest addition and I really hope you guys like it. I'm really gonna try my absolute HARDEST to stick with this story throughout the show's hiatus. I really just want to fall back in love with writing stories and this is the best way to do it. I hope you guys like it as this story is a little bit out of my comfort zone, especially with where I'm taking it.

Let me know what you think! And as always, thank you so so so much if you've stuck with me.

* * *

 _November 18_

 _I'm trying this because she said you'll listen with open ears and won't judge and I think at this point I'm willing to try anything. I know you won't ever reply to these and at first I thought that would really upset me but I think I've come to realize that it's exactly what I'll need. I don't think I need a response. I don't think I need advice. I think I just need someone to listen and go along with it. Listen and be on my side even when I'm making the wrong decision. If I write to you, maybe a couple months down the line I'll be able to look back and be proud of the changes I've made. Plus if I know you won't judge me for grammar mistakes once I get into the flow and stop remembering how to write like a proper Ivy League graduate._

 _She said I should tell you everything so you have all the pieces. She said I just have to keep on writing and writing and writing until I'm sure you have everything you need to work it all out for me while I'm asleep. I know you won't reply. I know you'll just take this all in. But I really am hoping that you can help me._

 _I was trying to think of something to tell you. Because I know otherwise me starting to write letters to you today makes no sense._

 _It kind of seems like I started for no reason. I could've started yesterday or the day before. I could have even started tomorrow and it wouldn't have made a difference, so by all means it feels like starting today makes no sense. I've found something to tell you. My story starts today and you need to know why today and not yesterday or tomorrow._

 _I heard something on the bus ride home that really turned it all around for me. I don't usually eavesdrop on other people's conversations, and I know it might be a little rude, but I think I'm going to start doing that more often. I think it's kinda amazing what you can find out just by listening to people other than the voices inside your own head. I know it's not the most effective technique, and it's probably not a good idea, but listening to how bad someone else's life is really does make you feel better about your own. At least that's the case for me. I listened to a conversation and learned about how this woman's husband was suing her for custody of their three kids and in the midst of that it really started to dawn on me that men truly are the root of all evil._

 _This wasn't my big enlightening moment that turned it all around for me, but it's worth the honorable mention. Men really are big pieces of crap who just assert their dominance over everyone just because they think they can. I know I can't really judge much because I don't know the woman on the bus but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that she's a good mother. I think so just by the way she talked about her kids and how much she loved them. And that alone made me think about the fact that her husband probably only wants to take her kids away just because he can._

 _I'm not naive. I know people lie. I know that woman could have just been saying anything to save face and for all I know, she's actually a horrible mother. Because people lie and they make things up and they put up very convincing fronts but there's a part of me that really just wants to believe that she was telling the truth. I wanna believe that the tears in her eyes were real when she was talking about her kids. I really wanna believe that there are people out there who aren't lying when they say they love someone. Even if it is a random stranger on the bus._

 _The woman's friend told her that things aren't going to get better if she just sits around and waits for them to. She told her that things won't get better unless she puts forth an effort and makes things change for herself, and that's what makes today so much different than yesterday and the other days that came before when I took the bus home. As soon as I heard that, it was like a lightbulb went off inside my head. It was like the pieces all connected, the gates opened up and the answer was waiting for me prepped and served on a silver platter. Everything just started to make sense._

 _Because I realized that nothing is going to change if I just sit around. Nothing is going to get better if I just hope and wish and pray that it does. I have to make decisions for myself. I have to make things happen for me. If I want to be happier, the responsibility lies in my own hands to make a change._

 _I thought I was doing my part simply by going. I don't know why, but I guess I just thought that signing up was all the battle. I thought signing up, then taking the bus 45 minutes into Jersey City every Wednesday and sitting there and listening to her talk was going to magically cure me._

 _I've been cautious with it, though. I take the bus instead of my car since he checks the mileage, and I walk to the station so he won't notice any gas is gone. And I made sure my sessions are only on Wednesdays, from 3 to 4 since Wednesdays are his late days. And I don't mention anything she's been talking to me about at all._

 _It's kind of scary how I feel like I'm living this secret life. I feel like this is all just a charade and it's only a matter of time before he figures me out. I don't know how, but he always does. That's why I don't even bother lying to him anymore._

 _I don't go back for another session until next week. So I think I'm going to have a week straight of writing you letters and really thinking about all the things she's said. I'm starting to realize that even though I show up on time and sit and listen attentively, I'm not always taking in her words. I don't ever let them marinate for a while in my brain. The more I think about it, the more I think that she's sorta talking **at** me and not really **to** me. Because I'm not always listening to understand. I'm mostly listening to respond._

 _I know something about today is different because for the first time ever, I'm not completely dreading going back next week._

 _I'm kinda excited._

 _Until next time,_

 _Brooke._

I blow the leftover pencil dust off my paper and lean back in the chair to admire my work. And I flex my fingers. _Open, close. Open, close._ Only now that I've stopped writing do I even realize I have a cramp in my hand. It didn't feel like I wrote as much as I did. I got kind of lost while I was going and things just started flowing. Even my handwriting got a little sloppy towards the end because I just stopped thinking about it and just let it flow.

I'm not sure how this is supposed to make me feel. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to feel lighter or more free after I get done writing, but I can freely say that I feel like there's someone behind my back. I know that's not possible, but still. I have to swivel around in the chair to look behind me anyway.

Nothing. Just like I knew there'd be. Absolutely nothing but plain white wall. It's funny how well I know myself. I picked this chair specifically because I knew that I'd feel this way after I was done. The chair against the wall. The one that looks out at everything else. At the stainless steel stove and fridge. At the marble countertops and crown-molded ceilings. The chair that can see straight down the hallway and to the front door, the only door he ever walks through.

You know what? This place would probably sell for half a mil. Off topic, but I think my mind needs a chance to wander and get away from the fact that I just tried a therapy tactic and wrote a letter. But seriously. This house is probably worth some big bucks, even without all the fancy Italian furniture. I've never asked how much he paid for this house, and I'm not sure he'd ever tell me anyway, but my guess is towards half a million because Persian carpets are like $30,000 on their own and we've got four upstairs bedrooms chock-full of Persian carpets.

I'm still flexing my fingers. _Open, close. Open, close._ They're not as sore and cramped up anymore. For a second I forgot why I even started flexing them in the first place. But then I remember… and that's what it comes back to.

Me and the letter.

The letter and me.

The letter and I.

I and the letter.

I still don't know how writing it was supposed to make me feel but I don't think it was supposed to feel like this. I'm willing to bet that it wasn't supposed to give me a stomachache.

I think maybe I'm going insane because I swear the letter is taunting me. The more I stare at it, my eyes do that weird double vision thing that everyone's eyes do if they stare too long but it's different because it kind of looks like the words are dancing on the lines. They're moving back and forth, then up and down and like they're ridiculing me until I blink and the tears tickle my cheeks.

I don't know if I should feel relieved. Right now I feel guilty. Because I think… somewhere deep down… so deep down I don't even know that it existed… I'm happy. Deep down it feels like there's a part of me that was ignited again after the flame he snuffed out so long ago stopped existing. Like I can breathe. Like I can just… be.

I know one thing. I didn't expect to actually like writing that letter. I didn't expect that I'd wrap it up and anticipate the next time I'd get a free moment without him so I could write another. I didn't expect writing that letter to actually work. But what do you know? She knew what she was talking about when she suggested the letters. Stupid me took forever to heed her advice. What the hell do you know? Karolee is actually good at her job.

Even through the tears still welled up in my eyes, I can make out a very distinct 7:51 on the microwave's clock. He'll be home soon. Probably tired and hungry and in a crappy mood from being on his feet all day. Probably complaining about something I have absolutely no control over. Probably raging mad if he's lost a patient.

But I've decided. Today, I'm going to try another therapy tactic. I'm going to think about what it'd be like if he came home happy. Karolee would be so proud of me.

Let's see… if he came home happy…

He'd kiss me when he walked through the door. And his lips would feel the same way they used to when he'd press them against mine so gently like he thought he'd break my face if he kissed me too hard.

And he'd rub my hair in the kiss like he used to and tell me that I'm beautiful. That he likes the way the new color palate he bought me looks amazing on my eyelids.

And he'd wrap his hands around my waist, not my neck this time. And he'd hold me close, but not the kind of close that makes me nervous. No. The kind of close that makes me want to melt into him because I feel so safe. The kind of safe I used to feel when he held me. Like as long as I was in his arms, nothing would hurt me.

If Paul came home happy… I wouldn't need to be folding my letter into a neat square small enough to fit into an envelope.

But instead, that's what I'm doing. And I'm stuffing it carefully in the back pocket of my jeans for safekeeping.

Stuffing it into my pocket as the front door opens.


	2. Let Me Be Myself

**A/N:** There's some language in this chapter that could be labeled as **M** , so here's your warning.

* * *

I already know what he's going to say. I can hear the floorboards creaking and his footsteps padding closer but for just one more moment, I don't want this to end. Because for the first time in a long time, my thoughts are still and I am at ease. It's something like I've always wanted. I've always wanted to find the "off" switch in the back of my mind and turn my brain off so I can just relax and be me without a million things running through my mind. I've found that. So despite the fact that I already know what he's going to say when he gets in here, I'm going to try and pretend that I don't. Just so I can keep this moment in time.

If this is all I ever do, I don't think I mind. If the only thing I ever do is stand in the kitchen in front of the window with all the lights turned off, watching raindrops trickle down the window glass… well I can die happy.

"B…" his voice is behind me, but I don't move. I don't want him to know I heard him. At least not yet.

"Hey B." He tries again but still nothing from me.

It's kind of scary how well I know him. How I know that right now, he's rubbing his eyes while he yawns and drags his house slipper feet along the hardwood. How I know that he rolled over and instantly sprang up as soon as his arm felt the empty sheets beside him.

He knew where I'd be. On nights like this, this is where I always am, in my pajamas with a warm cup of tea, standing in front of the biggest window in the house and just watching the raindrops as they fall. The more I think about it the more annoyed I get because just once I'd love for him to just leave me be. For once I'd like to come down here, watch the rain and not live with the lurking knowledge that he's going to come down at any moment and insist that I come back to bed. It's not like this is new behavior. It's not like he's still trying to learn me. We've been together three years, married for two and a half. If he doesn't know me by now, I don't think he ever will.

And at that thought, my lips tug at the corners. Maybe I should be a comedian. I'm a lot funnier than I give myself credit for. Because if there's anybody on this earth who knows that you never truly know who you marry, it's me. Maybe I should excuse him coming down here to drag me back to the bed. Maybe I understand that he doesn't know if I'll come back or not. Maybe he really is still trying to get to know me. And maybe, just maybe -

"Brooke," his sleepy voice is absolutely mesmerizing. It shoots a chill straight up my spine as soon as I feel his lips blow breath onto the skin on the back of my neck. Hands. His hands. Wrapped around my waist. And next, lips. His lips lightly pressed to my temple. "Shoulda known you'd be down here. Weatherman called for a thunderstorm earlier." Another kiss. "Come back to bed."

"I can't sleep." My voice comes out softer than I expected it to. It feels like he shouldn't have been able to hear it. It feels like it should've shattered in the air. But I know he heard. I know he did. Because if he's not good for anything else, he's good for listening to me.

"But I know you're tired." His fingertips graze the bare skin on my hips. _Back and forth, back and forth._ His thumbs play with the waistband of my pajama pants, peels the elastic back, then lets it snap back against my hips. "You were up at like six this morning."

"I took a nap around noon."

"Yeah?" he asks and I nod. "What else did you do while I was gone?"

"Nothing."

I don't think I should've lied. That's the one thing he's asked of me, through it all. All he's ever asked was for me to be honest with him and never tell him a lie yet here I am, lying to his face. But how do I tell him what I did? How do I turn around, face him and tell him that I wrote a letter? A letter addressed to someone I don't even know anymore, someone I think he might have gotten rid of? How do I turn around and tell him that the letter was part of the counseling I signed myself up for?

His fingers leave my waist, crawl up my back and curl through my hair, his palms rested at the base of my neck. And with a touch that's almost too gentle to belong to him, he tilts my head back until it's resting right on his chest. His fingertips stroke all along my scalp and my eyes flutter shut.

Is it wrong to feel the way I do? To feel a white-hot tingling in the pit of my stomach, to feel heat swirling all through the core of my being, to want to just melt into him just like fresh snow on a wet sidewalk?

I want him to stop touching me. His touch kind of burns. How can these hands, the same hands that are harsh on a bad day, touch me so gently? How can someone that makes me feel so bad, make me feel so good? How can I want him to take his hands off my body but at the same time, I never want him to let me go? How does he do this to me?

"So how tired are you?" his voice falls heavy in my ears, but I can hardly hear it over the steady beating of my heart.

"Tired enough."

"Too tired?"

His lips brush over my earlobe. I feel drunk, dizzy. Completely out of control. Like I'm not myself. Which is why I shake my head and let him lead me to the island in the middle of the kitchen. My tea mug? On the countertop. My slippers? On the floor. His lips move fast, entirely too fast. One moment they're on mine, and the next they're on my neck. I can't keep up. God, I want him to stop.

Even through the pitch darkness, he lifts my shirt over my head with ease. Shakes my hair out of it, tosses it to the floor. My pajama pants? On the floor. His lips? Trailing up the inside of my thigh. He reaches back and unbuckles my bra and no, that's not the first time he's ever done that, but for the first time my thoughts on it are rampant. How many times must he have done this to do it with ease? Not just with me, either. He's never fumbled with my bra. He's always unclasped it with ease. And for a man to be able to do it without even a split second's struggle… how many times must he have done this to other women? Other than me?

I don't know if I want this. My body says I do. The sticky dampness in my underwear can attest to that. But I don't know if _I_ truly want this. How will I ever let him go if I let this happen?

My underwear? On the floor. His pajama pants and boxer briefs? Floor too.

Just the two of us. My legs wrapped around his waist while I sit on top of the marble surface, his face stuffed in the crook of my neck. It's just us. Nothing else but the air between us. It's me, and it's him. No clothes. Just our naked bodies and even more naked souls pieced together as one and trying to make sense of each other. My body tenses when he starts… and thankful for the darkness and stormy weather, I am. At least now he won't notice the warm, salty streaks on my cheeks.

He's not all bad… is he? No, he's not. Sometimes he's amazing. Like when he rolls over in the middle of the night and pulls me a little closer. And when he comes home with a bouquet of white roses for me just because. Or when he takes me to the jewelry store and lets me pick out any ring I want to and says "this one's yours, princess." He's not all bad.

While he grunts in my ear, all I can think about are the times when I loved him. The times when just a look from him made me feel like I was floating on a cloud, the times where he made me laugh and smile. He was the love of my life. And if he was the love of my life once before, he can be that again… right? I can do this, can't I? I can beat this. He _does_ love me. I know he does. I know it. He has to. I just make him mad sometimes.

And when he's mad...

"You o-okay?"

As soon as his voice cuts through the darkness, my eyes snap open. _Please don't let him look up. Please. Don't let him notice my tears._

"Mmm-hmm."

"Good," he mutters and buries his face back in my neck. His hands pull my body closer to allow himself to go deeper and finally, a moan slips through my lips. But it's not from pleasure. At least I don't think it is. Not by the way a new round of tears stream down my cheeks.

My eyes wander to the microwave clock. In lime green fluorescence, **5:52**. 5:52 in the morning… and I still don't know if I want this.

But maybe it'll all be over soon.

* * *

I had a dream once that I had a toddler. She was bright eyed, chubby cheeked and she had the silkiest brunette hair. She kind of looked like me, but with Paul's eyes. She didn't have a name, but I knew she was mine. She couldn't have been any older than two. Maybe three.

But in my dream, she sat on my back. Her chubby little legs rested on either side of my body and she jabbered in her baby babble language to me while she took a purple marker and colored on my skin. I think she thought she was giving me cheetah spots. When I woke up, she was gone but her purple cheetah spots remained. There were seven of them. One on my shoulder, another on my neck. One on my wrist, also on my elbow and upper arm. One on my neck and a real sore one on my hip. Turns out my cheetah spots were bruises, put there by him and not her. Funny how in my dream, I didn't mind my baby putting marks on my body but when I think about him doing it something in my brain shuts off and I get angry.

As I sit here rubbing lotion on my freshly showered body, I see my cheetah spots. Even through the foggy mirror, I can see that they're there. One on my shoulder from last week when I brought home the wrong 2% milk. _Why did I tell him I wouldn't take it back?_ And one on my jaw from two days ago when he told me to keep my mouth shut. _Why did I roll my eyes at him?_

"Brooke?" his voice follows a knock on the door.

"Yeah?" I turn toward the door and pull my bathrobe over my body, quickly before he opens the door.

Still fastening his cufflinks, he rests his head against the doorframe and looks at me, head to toe, up and down. He must be getting ready to leave for the day. I lost track of time in the shower, but it can't be any later than 7:30 tops. I hate looking at him all done up in a suit. All it does is remind of why I loved him in the first place.

"I'm getting ready to head out. Claudia should be here in a few. When she gets here, make sure she washes my gray jacket and black pants. And ask her why the hell there's still dust on the picture frame at the end of our hallway. Tell her that I said if she can't do a job and do it right, I'll hire someone who can. Got it?"

"Got it," I nod.

"And I'm feeling steak tonight for dinner… you?"

"Steak's fine with me."

"Medium rare. Not undercooked, not over. Exactly medium rare. You know how I like it. Tell Hannah not to mess it up. I'm warning you, B. I have three surgeries and a meeting lined up for today and I'll be home late if my dinner's not exactly how I want it you know I won't be a happy man."

"I know, I know. She won't mess it up. I promise."

He nods once, then motions for me to join him at the door. And who am I to refuse? The bottoms of my feet are still damp, but I pad over to the door anyway and tilt my head upwards. I already know what he wants. His lips crash against mine roughly this time and that's how I know that the other Paul is back. No more gentleness. No more ginger touches and light caresses. Back to the eager, rough, down-to-business man. He's cold. Stone. Ironcladden.

"I'll be home around 6:30. I'll call you if I'll be later."

"Okay."

"...You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I throw a smile in there with this nod just to be a little more convincing. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were quiet last night… quieter than usual when we fuck." I cringe at that word. It's not that I'm prude. It's not that I've never heard that word before. But would it kill him to say "make love" instead? "You need to get that checked out." He mumbles that last part then motions to the bruise on my jawline.

 _What would I say? If I go to a doctor to make sure my jaw isn't dislocated or broken, what do I say? Certainly not the truth._

"See you later." I call after him once he turns and leaves, and tighten the strap on my bathrobe. Does the bruise on my jaw look that bad?

I tilt my head back and look in the mirror at how far down it goes. It stops at my neck. It's not that bad…. is it? My fingers push on it, watch it turn from purple to the color of my skin, back to purple again. My lip finds its way under my teeth. And I bite down on it. I can't cry… I can't. I'm stronger than that. I won't let him break me down. I can't cry.

I can't cry…

 _But I know what I_ _can_ _do._

Somehow I find myself at his desk. I know later he might check everything. Later when he gets home, he might notice that there are frayed ends of a notebook sheet and a piece of paper missing. He might notice that the ink level in his pen dropped a little because yes, he does notice things like that. But I'll think of an excuse later. I'll think of one way, way later.

Because right now… I just need to talk to the one person that'll listen.


	3. Changing Faces

_November 19_

 _I think this is how it's supposed to work, but I'm not sure. I think I'm supposed to write to you whenever I feel unsure. Whenever I don't think I can make it anymore. Whenever I don't know if I'm right or if I'm wrong or if I'm a little bit of both. Karolee says the best part about you is that you won't judge or tell me if I'm wrong._

 _Do you ever wish that God could come sit on the edge of your bed, put his hand on your back, tell you that it's okay and here's exactly what you should do?_

 _I don't even know if I believe in God anymore. Truth be told, I don't know if I really ever did. It's not like I ever went to church. The only time I've ever set foot in a church was at our wedding. But for all intents and purposes, I think my faith is clear. I don't know if I have faith in God. But I have faith in something._

 _I have faith that someday it's going to get better. I have faith in that eventually, I'll learn everything about him and know what to avoid. I already know most of his triggers, like if the milk isn't 2% or if the toilet paper goes on the roll the opposite way. And I know that he doesn't like shoes on the carpet which, I can't really blame him for. I usually tally up the marks on my body after the day's end, but I didn't count that one a couple weeks ago. I deserved that one. Persian carpets are really expensive._

 _All I need is to learn him. That's all I need. I've almost got him completely down, I think. I almost have him down. And when I do, it's all going to be better, isn't it? I know you can't reply, but I really wish you could. I really wish you could tell me that I'm right. That as soon as I learn which buttons I shouldn't push, it'll all go back to the way it was in the beginning._

 _But what if it doesn't? That's what scares me. What if this is the way it's always going to be? I know when I married him I said for better or worse, but what if there is no for better? What if nothing ever does change? What if I never learn him 100% and I'm constantly just pushing his buttons and I just… have to deal with this forever?_

 _He seems like two different people and I don't understand it. I don't understand how someone can be so good, but so bad at the same time. It just doesn't make any sense to me and I'm scared that it never will. I'm scared that I will always be stuck never knowing which way is up or which way is down. I'm scared that I never will know why sometimes his eyes look at me like I'm the greatest thing he's ever seen and sometimes they look at me like I'm the reason for everything that's bad in this world. I'm scared that I'll never know how his hands could wipe away my tears, then switch to wrapping themselves around my neck._

 _I love him. I really really love him. But I don't want to love him anymore. Loving him hurts. Loving him hurts so bad and I don't want to hurt anymore. Can someone please tell me how to stop loving him? I don't want to hurt anymore. I don't want to love him anymore. I don't want to hurt anymore._

 _I know you can't reply but please… I just need to know how to stop loving him._

 _\- Brooke._

* * *

While Hannah flutters around the kitchen, I watch her, lost in my own thoughts. Even though it seems creepy, I do this a lot. I like watching Hannah. She's the only one who works for me that I like. Claudia's fine, sure. She doesn't talk much. She keeps her head down and cleans all day. She never really says much to me. Probably because she figures I'm like him.

But Hannah is different. Hannah is my favorite. Hannah intrigues me. I like the way she always looks the same. Even the tight cornrows in her long black hair are always the exact same.

Everything about her is just so warm that when I look at her, I feel like my insides are sloshy, like some kind of liquid. She's just a warm person. From the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she grins to the way her thick accent breaks through when she calls me "Mrs. Stadler." I've told her so many times that she can call me Brooke, but she never does. She always makes sure she speaks to me with respect and I try to make sure I do the same. Paul doesn't. But I try to make it a point to let her know that I'm not him.

She's such a gentle person. So gentle that all her movements seem like she's making them a little too swiftly, like a butterfly gliding its wings. It's kind of ironic though, because she's not by any means a small person. She's large, probably overweight even; a big burgeoning presence in the house. But I can't help thinking that her body fits her. I think it has to be that big. It has to be large enough to fit her heart inside, because it's gotta be as big as the moon.

Every time I watch her, I can't help but wonder what she thinks of this job. I wonder if she likes it, likes coming here at 3:30 every day just to start cooking some big elaborate meal. She'd never tell me the truth, even if I did ask her. She'd just smile at me and tell me she doesn't mind the work because she likes cooking but I wish she knew that she could be honest with me. I wish she knew that I didn't come from a life like this and that I'm nothing like him. I want her to know that I don't see her as just the help, even though Paul does.

He'd never say it to her face. And he'd never be blunt about it either. He'd never tell Hannah that he hired her solely because he's "traditional" and thinks that people "like her" belong in the kitchen. I don't think Claudia thinks too deeply about it I think she takes this as exactly for what it is - a job. She's always been very down to business, and I think Claudia makes Paul feel better about himself because at least with a Chinese cleaning lady, he can say all our "help" isn't African-American.

Hannah, my Hannah, is everything good in the world. And I just know that it's crossed her mind. When he asked her where she was _really_ from, it crossed her mind. And when he won't put the money directly in her hand, it crosses her mind. Just once I wish I could tell her that I don't agree with him. That my ideals aren't the same. That had I known he had these morals about himself, I'd have never married him.

It's amazing what you find out after a marriage license is issued.

"Everything okay Mrs. Stadler?" Hannah looks up from slicing steaks into thin pieces. She must have caught me in a daze.

"Hmm? Yeah, everything's okay."

After I answer, her head goes right back down and she continues slicing our steaks. I wish I could help her. I wish it wasn't like I had to sit down on my lazy, privileged behind and watch while our chef dices our food. But I'm not allowed to help. Hannah gets paid to make sure I don't have to lift a finger, and Paul lets that be known. And I know, it's not like he would know if I helped Hannah out since he's not here. But he would. Somehow, he'd know. He finds out everything.

"Hannah Banana," I clear my throat and lean against the marble countertop.

"Yes?"

I smile at the way her accent shines through even with words as simple as that. "...Do you like working for me and Mr. Stadler?"

Hannah smiles so wide that I can see the slight gap in her front teeth. "Of course I do."

"You don't have to lie."

"Not lying, I like my job. Cooking is my passion. I'm happy to be paid for my passion."

Her fingers skillfully peel fresh rosemary off the stem. She really does seem to be at home in the kitchen. She doesn't even have to think about her movements while she's making them. It's like second nature to her. About as natural as blinking. I'm glad she's comfortable somewhere in this house. Even if it is just here. I slip a hand across the table and begin helping her peel rosemary.

"But if you don't like the way Mr. Stadler treats you sometimes, you know you can say it. You don't have to tell me what you think I want to hear."

Hannah swats my hands off the rosemary, and I pull them away. She always tries to help me whenever she knows I'm doing something that could get me into trouble.

"You know Mrs. Stadler," she looks up at me. "You should listen to your own advice sometime."

* * *

 _November 19_

 _I don't know if there are rules about how many times I can write to you in one day but I'll make this short anyway since he'll be home pretty soon. Karolee says there are no rules for this tactic. But just in case there are hidden ones that I don't know about, I'll apologize now for writing you two letters in one day._

 _But I think I cracked the secret. A while ago when I was downstairs talking to Hannah. When you read this, I don't know if you'll remember Hannah so just in case you don't, Hannah is our chef. And I think I cracked the code while talking to her about an hour ago._

 _I think the trick is to think about her. Because sitting downstairs, I realized that I would have never married Paul had I known that he had very racist, sexist and sometimes homophobic beliefs. I would have never married a man like that. Because when I think about how he treats Hannah and Claudia and how he only hired them because they're women, and women of color, it makes me burn up with rage. And hatred for him._

 _I don't know if this is as big a breakthrough as I think it is, but I think it's pretty big. I don't know why I can't hate him for the way he treats me. I don't know why my first thought is to think about the things that I've done wrong. But when I think about how he treats other people, people that I love like Hannah, it infuriates me. It makes me sick._

 _And I think if I think about Hannah and the way he treats her…_

 _Making me sick is the first step to not loving him anymore. Maybe if he makes me sick then I_

"Brooke…?"

At his voice, I drop my pencil.

"Why are you in my office?" he asks. "What are you writing?"

….busted.


	4. Broken Glass

The room moves all around me. The walls wobble like they're part of a mirror illusion inside of a fun house, and the floor seems like it's crumbling beneath me. My ears tingle with the sound of silence. My feet are stuck, glued to the carpet and I really can't move. I can't even think. I can't even breathe. All I can do is stand. And stare. And I can see myself.

Karolee's words have pairs of feet, and they're running through my head right now. It's happening again. It happens every time. And just as I thought I got over how scared and disoriented I feel when it happens, it all comes back to me. This was the first thing I'd ever confessed to her during our second session together, and at least now I have an explanation for it.

 _Sometimes when we get scared in a situation we can't get out of, it's our body's way of distancing ourselves from the thing we can't get away from._

It'll go away in a few minutes. It always does. But for now, I feel like someone poured a bucket of ice cold water over my head… and I'm stuck, floating in the corner of the room, just watching it all go down.

He takes a step toward my solid body and raises his eyebrow. I watch a thick bead of sweat trickle down my temple. It's me and him, standing off. Who's going to speak first? Is it going to be him, standing in front of me with his hands folded across his chest, still wearing those black pants with a neat crease ironed down the middle? Or is it going to be me?

I watch my shoulders move up and down. It's the only sign that I'm alive. The only sign that I'm breathing.

"Well?" he voice cracks like thunder, and I still can't move. Palms sweaty, pulse racing, heartbeat fast. "What're you doing in here?"

"C-Claudia," I stumble over my words and that's when finally, I'm back. I'm not floating in the corner of the room anymore. I'm here, in the flesh and standing face-to-face with him. "I'm heading into town early tomorrow and I'll probably be gone before she gets here. I wanted to leave her a note to remind her the linens need washed."

Not my best work, I'll admit. I'm usually so much better at manufacturing a lie. But he caught me off guard and I had to think on my toes. I hope it's enough. Please let it be enough. The knot in my stomach is already forming. My eyes scan the room. Door.

 _The door's only about five feet to my right. If he comes after me, I can make it to the door in about two seconds flat. Maybe shorter._

Stapler.

 _If he grabs me before I can move, the stapler's just an arm's length away. If I hit him with it - hit him hard, right in the temple - it'll buy me maybe thirty seconds to get to the front door._

Alarm system.

 _Probably the easiest, but out of the question. All I'd have to push is one button. The blue one that'd call to the police. But they'd take too long to get here. He'd have me down before then._

"What are you going into town for?" he presses.

"Errands." My reply is quick. Whiplike. Too calculated. His brows furrow. He's not buying it.

"What kind of errands?"

Nothing will come out. My brain is churning, working maximum overdrive but I can't say anything. The longer I stay silent, the longer I'm mute, the more he suspects something. I wonder if he can see the sweat dripping off of me. I wonder if he can feel the nerves radiating from my pores. I wonder if he -

"I have to grab a few things from the store," the lie falls out of my mouth like slobber from a baby's. It's good, but not good enough. The best lie is one that won't generate questions. His eyes flicker from me, to the letter, then back to me. Suspicious. "I-I came on my," I stumble. "M-My-"

"This morning?"

"Yes," I nod. "I have enough for the night but I'll need another box tomorrow, and -"

"Mmmkay," he mutters, digging his hand deep into his pocket and grabbing his phone. "I'll leave you money before I leave tomorrow. Dinner's done, be down in five. I have a lot to tell you."

The sweet, beautiful feeling of relief. It washes over me like air conditioner on a hot summer day. I can let out my breath. I can be steady. I can be me.

I do that a lot. I don't know how many more times I'll be able to use that as my clutch, but for now it still works. It's the one thing he doesn't ask many questions about. When it comes to my feminine problems, it's the one thing he never wants to hear about. He never wants me to go into detail. I can tell him that I need a box of tampons, I can tell him that I have cramps, I can tell him that I'm flowing heavy, and absolutely does not want to hear about it whatsoever. I know eventually he'll realize that's my cop out. Someday he'll realize that anytime I have something I want to keep private, I somehow explain it away with my period. I just don't know when that someday is.

He turns and leaves me alone in his office and when I hear the floorboards on the steps creak, that's when I know I'm truly in the clear. That's when I know I can dry my sweat off the pen, smooth out the paper in front of me, and figure out a quick finish. I have more to say than I thought I did, more to talk about than I realize. I don't reread what I already wrote so I know where I left off. I don't continue the thought that was interrupted by him. This letter might be confusing, but I know that she'll understand. I know that she'll read it and understand what happened when my thoughts are jumbled and my handwriting is sloppy because my hand can't stop shaking. And I know she'll understand if there are smudged spots of ink and wavy parts of the paper from where my tears landed.

I know that she'll be okay. I know that she'll read it and she'll just take it all in and listen. She'll probably wrinkle her brow in confusion, then take a split moment to catch on; catch on to the fact that I had to stop writing then start again. She'll probably run her finger across the wavy parts of the paper, then nod in understanding. And she won't ask me questions about it.

When I put the pen down, I almost expect there to be puffs of smoke coming off of it. I expect it to be steaming. I wrote so fast with it, so diligently that I don't think I lifted it off the paper even once. No correct grammar. No commas, no periods, no semicolons. Just me, venting my thoughts.

I smooth the paper out again. And the letter looks something like this when I'm finished:

 _November 19_

 _I don't know if there are rules about how many times I can write to you in one day but I'll make this short anyway since he'll be home pretty soon. Karolee says there are no rules for this tactic. But just in case there are hidden ones that I don't know about, I'll apologize now for writing you two letters in one day._

 _But I think I cracked the secret. A while ago when I was downstairs talking to Hannah. When you read this, I don't know if you'll remember Hannah so just in case you don't, Hannah is our chef. And I think I cracked the code while talking to her about an hour ago._

 _I think the trick is to think about her. Because sitting downstairs, I realized that I would have never married Paul had I known that he had very racist, sexist and sometimes homophobic beliefs. I would have never married a man like that. Because when I think about how he treats Hannah and Claudia and how he only hired them because they're women, and women of color, it makes me burn up with rage. And hatred for him._

 _I don't know if this is as big a breakthrough as I think it is, but I think it's pretty big. I don't know why I can't hate him for the way he treats me. I don't know why my first thought is to think about the things that I've done wrong. But when I think about how he treats other people, people that I love like Hannah, it infuriates me. It makes me sick._

 _And I think if I think about Hannah and the way he treats her…_

 _Making me sick is the first step to not loving him anymore. Maybe if he makes me sick then I_

 _What if I keep having these out of body experiences because Im really not me I know karolee said that it happens because im in an uncomfortable situation and im scared and its my bodys way of escaping a situation I cant escape from but what if thats not true what if I keep having these experiences because Im really not me anymore because I dont think I am I dont think Im the kind of person that is scared all the time I have never been scared of anything in my life until I met him and now I cant move when he speaks to me and I cant even breathe I feel like hes suffocating me like Im drowning in everything and he doesnt even care when he yells at me I feel like Im somewhere else and someone else entirely it happens all the time and Im starting to think that maybe its because my body knows that mentally Im not exactly who Im supposed to be Im not this quiet girl who sits down and shuts up I think I was born with two souls two souls stuffed inside my body and the one soul is the one that comes out when hes around but somewhere deep inside me I know this isnt who I am this isnt who Im supposed to be but now I dont know if Ill ever just be me what if im stuck like this forever he took so many pieces of me so many pieces that I cant get back how long until he takes everything how long until Im gone for good how long until the Brooke he leaves me with is another person entirely?_

 _-Brooke_

* * *

With the back of my palm, I wipe the few more tears that trickled out of my eyes away. And I fold the letter small enough to fit into an envelope.

Then I put my best smile on so I can join my husband for dinner.

"More wine, Mrs. Stadler?" Hannah asks ever so gently as she cradles the bottle of pink moscato in her hand. I glance up at Paul before I answer. Still on his phone, thumbs still gliding across the screen.

I hate the way I have to act when Paul's home. I hate how I have to act like I've never had so much as a light conversation with Hannah. I hate how I have to act like I don't know she has a husband and two small sons at home. I hate how I have to treat her as less than a human. _I can pour my own damn wine. You're not my servant. You cooked me dinner and that's good enough. You can go home now, Hannah. You can go put your boys to bed._ That's what I want to say. But instead, I just nod.

And at my nod, she tilts the bottle over.

"Hannah, no," Paul finally locks his cell phone and looks up at the both of us. He meets Hannah's eyes, not mine. "She'll have water."

"Yes Mr. Stadler, right away." Just like everyone else he's ever around, Hannah bows her head and rushes off at his beck and call.

Finally, our eyes meet. Even the way he chews his steak has a sense of entitlement behind it. He looks at me with raised eyebrows, as if he's challenging me; _willing_ me to say something to him about the wine I wanted. I say nothing, though. I hold his gaze. And that's too much for him. That's not obedient enough.

"You have something you want to say to me?" he asks. I shake my head just as Hannah brings me a fresh glass of ice water. I want to tell her thank you, but I know I'm not allowed. So I just let her put it down and hustle back to the kitchen. "That'd be your second glass of wine. You'll thank me later when your jeans still fit."

I want to roll my eyes. But that's a cardinal sin. So I clear my throat and put on my best voice.

"What is it that you wanted to speak with me about?" I ask.

He swallows hard, pats his mouth with the cloth napkin, and leans forward. Even though he's at the total opposite end of the table, his presence looms over me. To me, he's gigantic. He could be miles away and he'd still tower over me like the Empire State Building.

For a moment, I imagine what it'd be like to be a fly on the wall. I think if I were the fly… I'd be fooled. I'd land on the wall and look around and with the brown tablecloth draped loosely over the sides, the golden candlestick holders in the middle of the table that house open flames and the bubbly wine and champagne… I'd think this is nothing more than a wealthy young couple enjoying their dinner. I wouldn't know that the wife is screaming on the inside, desperate for a release. And I surely wouldn't suspect that the husband across from her was monstrous.

"You remember Ramona? The accountant from my settlement last year?" he picks up his wine glass and takes a swig. I, on the other hand, only nod. "I was at her house for a few hours this afternoon, and she mentioned something about disbursing the other half of my parents' estate. So I can finally get that room redone. The one we're talking about turning into a nursery."

I don't know how, but I narrowly escape choking on a piece of salad. I wash it down with a sip of my water and try to think about where to start. First of all, I never agreed to anything about a room being turned into a nursery. But most importantly, I want to know why he was at Ramona's house. I thought… I don't know, but I really thought he agreed to stay away from her. I thought I managed to get her out of the picture…

"Doesn't that sound great?" he prods.

"I thought we agreed to wait to try for a b-baby, isn't that what we decided? That we shouldn't rush into this, that we should -"

"We did," he takes another bite of steak and speaks with his mouth full. "But plans change, I'm about to be bumped up to head of my department, you sit around and do nothing all day, and there's no reason we should wait anymore. So you're going to give me a son. And he should be here… eh, I'd say July of next year. Maybe end of August."

"I… I don't think… I didn't-"

"You'll change your mind once you see his heartbeat on the ultrasound or whatever."

"Paul-"

"It's not really up for debate, Brooke. This is the least you could do for me. I take care of the house, I pay the bills, buy you nice things, make sure you're happy… and now, I want a son. You can protest all you want, but I'm a very determined man and you know that. I get whatever I want."

My top teeth clench down on my bottom lip and my jaw hardens. There is no way. ABSOLUTELY no way. I… I refuse.

"Think about it," he continues. "I wanted to go to Hopkins, I got that. I wanted to be head of my department, I'm getting that soon. I wanted this house, I wanted you. And now, I want a son. I'm a very determined man."

I release my lip, and it throbs. _Birth control?_ He'd find out about that. _Intentional miscarriage?_ He'd kill me if he found out. _What about the Plan B?_ Yeah, that's it. Plan B. I could buy a bunch of Plan B. I could take them all out of their packaging and hide them in the Midol box. He'd never know the difference.

"...So you were at Ramona's?" I switch the subject smoothly, though I'm not so calm internally.

"Uh-huh," he dusts off the last piece of his steak and pushes his empty plate to the middle of the table. "Don't look at me like that, don't look so surprised. You didn't _actually_ think I'd given up with her, did you?"

"Well I thought-"

"Again, very determined man. Let's be honest here with ourselves, B. I'm a man. And men have certain needs. And sometimes, you don't always fulfill those needs. So I get them met elsewhere. By Ramona."

The corners of my eyes sting and my face feels like it jumped up a few hundred degrees, but I refuse to let him see me cry over this again. He will not see me cry. I've cried over this too many times already. I cried when I first found out about her, I cried when he broke all four of my fingers for calling her number when I saw her name come up on his caller ID, and I cried when he admitted that he'd been sleeping with her for the last five years. He met her before me. He met her back when his parents died and she handled the money. He met her before me… and couldn't give her up. He swore he'd stop, though. He swore he would...

"For fuck's sake, Brooke. Say it. Stop looking at me with that sourpus look on your face and just say it."

"You're seeing her again?"

"I never stopped."

"...Why? Why'd you lie to me, why'd you… just… why?"

"I don't really owe you an explanation."

"I'm your _wife_ , Paul."

"But I make the rules. I pay the bills, I make the rules. My roof, my rules."

"What if I don't like the rules?!" I accidentally snap at him. "What if I don't want to just sit here and take it?! What if I don't want to let you - let my _husband_ \- sleep with another woman? I'm supposed to just sit here and let it happen, right?! I'm supposed to be content? Supposed to let you put a BABY inside of me when you can't even -"

I only have a split second to flinch before the wine collides with my face. My eyes? Burned. My hair? Soaked. My dress? Ruined. I find a small dry section on the cloth napkin folded in my lap and dab my stinging eyes with it. The candles are all burned out and wine drips off my chin and down my back from my hair. I knew that was coming. I expected that. I was getting too mouthy.

"You don't like the rules? That's too damn bad. This is my house. And if you don't like the way I run my house, then you can go back to where you were before you met me," his voice is calm, but the tone of it spits fire. His words are harsh. They cut me like a thousand knives. "Did you forget about that?" I say nothing back. I just wipe my face. "You're _trash_ , Brooke. _Trash_. You were nothing before me and you'll be nothing without me."

My jaw won't stop trembling. I know there isn't anything good that can come of me saying this, but…

"...And what if I leave? Then what?"

He sits at his end of the table and laughs. One of those real throaty laughs, too. With his lips pressed together and it sounds more like a hum. He laughs. And he keeps laughing until it happens. Like a flash of lightning, but quicker than that. He changes at the drop of a hat, the flick of a light switch.

And this time, I stay in my body when the table flips over and the glass shatters all over the floor. No floating off in the corner of the room, no watching it happen to me. It's all here. In my point of view. My fingers grip the bottom of my dining chair and I sink into the back cushion, flinching as his nose is touching the tip of mine. He moves quickly. I almost didn't even see him when he pounced over to me.

"Where are you going to go?" he nearly whispers and I tilt my head upwards to avoid eye contact. His breath tickles my nose and it's so hot that I start to sweat. Funny how his breath is as hot as the fire he breathes. "You listen to me, Brooke." I don't even blink. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry, and if I blink, the tears will fall. I don't want him to win. God I can't let him win. If I cry then he won. He can't hurt me if I don't let him win. I can't let him win. I can't let him -

"MMMMHH," I bite down hard on my lip to keep my groans to myself, but he caught me off guard with the way he just pulled my hair. He tightens his grip and my scalp tingles. Tightens his grip a little more… then pulls my head downward. He forces me to look into his eyes, and I will. I'll look into his eyes... But I won't cry.

"You don't have anywhere to go without me. I gave you everything you have and without me, you'll never have anything else. I get what I want. And I want you. Do you hear me? I. Want. You. And if I can't have you… nobody's going to. Do you understand?" He looks deep into my eyes and doesn't bat an eyelash. He's serious when he says, "I'll kill you. And nobody will ever find out that I did it. You know that, right? You know how easy it'll be? Since nobody wants you? Since nobody _cares_? You leave me… and I will find you… and I will kill you. I promise you that."

His lips burn when they crush against mine, but I keep my jaw locked. I don't want to kiss him. He can't control whether or not I kiss him back. He can kiss me. But he CANNOT make me kiss him back. Not even when he forces his tongue between my clenched teeth.

"Clean this shit up," he speaks through his own clenched teeth when he's through kissing me, then lets go of my hair. "I'm going to Ramona's. I'll be back later."

Only when I hear the door slam shut behind him do I finally move. The tears come rolling down my cheeks, but I lean forward and spit. Right onto the pile of shattered glass beneath my feet. I don't want him inside of me in any way anymore. Not even in the form of spit.

Through my tears, I drop down to my knees. Wine still staining my dress, dampness still residing in the middle of my back, I start by picking up the pieces of glass that are large enough for me to grab with my hands. I hear footsteps behind me and part of me is expecting him to show up again, even though I know he left.

But there is no part of me that is surprised when Hannah kneels down and starts picking up glass too.


	5. The Resolution

**A/N:** **M** rated language here and some things can be triggering. So here's your warning. Please use precaution.

* * *

She leans across the table and nudges the tissue box a little closer to me. I can tell by the look on her face, she's wondering why I won't take them. And I wish I had a good answer. I wish the answer bouncing off the walls inside of my head was decent enough for me to explain, decent enough for me to not sound completely insane when I say it. I wish the answer I had didn't make me feel like I can't say it.

But the truth is, the only answer I have is that I'm trying to come up with a reason why I even deserve a tissue. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't sit here, tears tickling my cheeks as they roll down. It's not like I've done anything as of late to deserve a soft, papery white cloth to even dry my eyes with. I wasn't thinking like this before I came here. I wasn't thinking like this on the bus. No. On the bus, I was excited to put my hood down, shake the loose waves out of my hair and trot in here after a week.

I was excited to sink into the rundown couch cushions, curl my freshly painted toes into the plush carpet and feel safety encompass me like the chocolate brown walls closing me in. I was excited to smell that familiar scent of peppermint and tobacco, excited to get everything off my chest and listen to what Karolee had to say. I was excited to be back to the one place I feel understood.

But after listening to Karolee talk for the past ten minutes, I'm quite sure that there's anywhere I'd rather be than here. I'd rather be somewhere where I cool be of use to someone. Somewhere where I'm not a waste of space.

Why do I deserve a tissue? Why do I deserve to pat my eyes dry until I'm comfortable? Why do I deserve comfort?

 _What have you done this past week, Brooke?_

Her question bounds off the walls of my head like a pinball inside a machine. I haven't made any progress. I haven't done anything to help myself. I've just sat around and let him do whatever he wants to me, let him continue to have his power over me. I know it. And now, sitting across from me with her ice blue eyes boring into my soul and her thick blonde curls nearly covering the left side of her face, Karolee knows it too.

 _Nothing_.

That's my answer. I've done nothing.

"Brooke?" she calls my name and somehow her voice is like she tied an anchor to my foot, dragging me back down. Keeping me level. Keeping me sane. "We've 30 minutes left and still haven't discussed anything."

I scrape my cheeks across my shoulder to wipe my tears, then sniff. I have a question. A stupid one, but a question nonetheless. And I don't know how to ask. I don't know if I should. Because what if I don't like the answer?

"Is there anything you'd like to talk about? Anything at all? It's been a full week since our last visit. I'm sure you have things I need to know," her voice is so gentle that the mere thought of ignoring her even makes me feel guilty.

 _If I could just figure out how to word this question…_

"Unless it was a good week," she clicks her ballpoint pen and closes her notebook. Her stockings make a weird "zzzzt" sound as she shifts, crossing one leg over the other so she can lean a little closer to me. "Was it a good week? Was Paul alright this week?"

I watch the piece of fingernail polish I chipped off my thumbnail flutter to the floor. Tickle Me Pink. That's the name of the shade. Of all the things I could be thinking about right now, the most prominent thought in my mind is that there is now a Tickle Me Pink speck in the middle of Karolee's white plush carpet.

 _Why can't I think of how to word this question?_

"Why don't you tell me all the positive things he's done this week? Hmm? Why don't we start with that? Did he -"

"Can wives be raped?" I ask, flat out and way up front.

I'm not sure if that was the best way to handle it, but at least I got it out. I caught her off guard. I can tell. Her mouth hangs just slightly open and I can see the tops of her crooked bottom row of teeth. She's trying to be discreet, but I'm focused as she slowly opens her notebook back up and reclicks the pen. I have to look away. I can't look at her while I say this.

I feel it coming. It's rising in my throat like vomit. And when it comes out? I'm not going to need to pause. I'm not going to need to breathe.

"Brooke, if-"

"I'm just not sure if that's even possible I mean I married him and I'm his wife so technically he can do whatever he wants to me and I can't really say no to him because I'm his wife and that's what wives are for right?"

She is silent. And when I look back up at her, she is not looking at me. Her fingers move fast, flying across the keyboard in front of her at lightning speed with a "clack clack clack clack" noise echoing in the room. There's a part of me that wants to leave, wants to go hide my face. And there's another part of me that wants to stand up and slap her, demand she look at me, demand she do her job and shrink me. But the biggest part of me… the part I can't control… remains glued in the chair.

"K-Karolee?" my voice comes out in a tone I can't even recognize. It's fragile. Like if it hangs in the air a moment too long, it'll fall to the floor and break and I'll shatter into a billion salty tears.

"Give me one second," her voice is still that same soothing tone but there's a sense of haughtiness to her. Like she means business.

"N-nevermind, if you can't answer that question, it's okay. I-I mean I-"

In one split second, she turns her computer screen so it faces me. She even adjusts the tilt on it so there is no glare. And I look at it for a split second, then look away. I don't want to see that.

"I need you to read this for me, Brooke." She means business. She's not even close to joking. "Read this for me now."

"Karolee, I-"

"Read it."

"Just forget the question, I was just-"

"Read it."

She's not going to let this go. So I flicker my eyes back up to the computer screen.

"Out loud," she demands.

I clear my throat. And here goes nothing.

"R-Rape is a type of s-sexual assault usually involving sexual intercourse or other forms of sexual penetration carried out against a person without that person's consent," I lick my lips and meet Karolee's eyes. I know there are more tears rolling down my cheeks, but I don't bother with them.

 _Why is she making me do this?_

"The whole thing," she nearly whispers.

"The act may be carried out by physical force, coercion…" my voice trails off as my jaw begins to quake.

"Keep going, Brooke. Almost done. You can do it."

"...A-Abuse of authority, or against a person who is incapable of giving valid consent, such as one who is unconscious, incapacitated, has an intellectual disability or is below the legal age of consent."

"That a girl," she reaches across the desk and takes my hand inside hers. And I swear to god until this moment, I never knew just how good another person's touch could feel. "Now let me ask you. ...Can wives be raped?"

And to that…

I just nod my head.

* * *

 _November 23_

 _I hope you haven't been worried about me. I know it's been awhile since you've gotten a letter. I wish I had a better explanation, but the only one I can offer is that it hasn't been safe._

 _He thought he was going to get a promotion. On Monday, he was certain of it. So certain that he wore his best suit and gave the head of the department a tip that he was going to be fired and replaced. I guess you could probably figure out that he didn't get it._

 _I'm still trying to figure out how exactly it was my fault. He never gave me an explanation, but he said I was to blame. I don't know why or how. I prayed for his promotion. I really, really did. It baffles me that he didn't get it._

 _So needless to say, he's been in a bad mood and when he's in a bad mood, it's not safe for me._

 _I had a visit with Karolee this afternoon though. You probably already know that._

 _I can't remember exactly what we talked about. Her office has the ability to do that to me. I don't know why, but it's like when I step into her office, the world outside of it disappears for a while. It's like when I'm in there with her, everything starts to make sense in my head and I start to realize all the things that have been wrong. I have no sense of time. Only when she gives me reminders that the session is almost over do I remember that I have a life outside of her office. Outside of her help. So looking back on it, I don't remember exactly what it was we spoke about._

 _The one thing I do remember, that I'd like to share with you, is the idea that wives can be raped. Just because I'm his wife doesn't mean I have to want it. Just because I'm his wife doesn't give him the right to put a baby inside of me._

 _That's what he wants. He wants a baby. A boy to carry on the Stadler last name. And if it's a girl? That's okay. He'll keep putting babies inside of me until he gets his precious son._

 _I don't know what I'm going to do with this knowledge. But it has opened up a world of doors for me. Just the idea now that I'm not wrong for not wanting this is huge. The idea that even as his wife, I don't have to want sex doesn't overwhelm me anymore. Like I said. I don't know what I'm going to do with this knowledge. I don't know if I'll ever turn him in. I haven't done anything yet. I haven't done anything but lie underneath of him an hour ago and let him go until he finished. I haven't done anything but swallow a plan B pill._

 _But something's changing inside of me, and I can't explain it._

 _I always believed that it would make sense someday. I always knew that one day, the dots would connect, the stars would align and face down in the dirt, I'd look up and tell him that it doesn't hurt. I'd look up and finally tell him (and myself) that I've had enough. I believed that there would come a day where I'd sit on the bus on the way home from therapy and really take in Karolee's words._

 _And I think it happened today. Somewhere between the first stop and the second. When I realized my ass was hurting from the lumpy bus seats. When I realized that I shouldn't have to take a bus for fear of my husband finding out I used gas in my car. For fear of my husband finding out that I'm trying to deal with him._

 _I think it happened today when walking home from the bus stop in the freezing rain, the only thing I could think was that wives can be raped. That wives don't have to put up with everything just because they married a man. That wives don't have to swallow it._

 _I started a new book today. Well… it's not really new. I've read it three times before. But today, I started it with fresh eyes. With a new outlook. With the knowledge that women don't have to sit down, shut up and take everything… a concept that was foreign to me before Karolee opened my eyes._

 _I started this book. It's called Little Women… ever heard of it?_

 _I don't know what I'm going to do with this knowledge. I don't know what my brain is formulating. I don't know what kind of half-cocked crazy idea I'll come up with tomorrow. I don't know if I'll stop thinking at all, long enough to go to sleep tonight. I don't know much of anything right now. But of two things, I'm certain. I'm certain that I'd rather die than give Paul a baby... I'd rather flee the entire country than have a miniature version of him. And I'm also certain that I'm beginning to think about Josephine from Little Women…_

 _And I think she has a very nice name._


	6. Not Anymore

"That'll be 29.96," she flashes me a set of teeth so perfect that I want to ask if she's wearing dentures. Or what the name of her dentist is, as if it'll really matter to me after tomorrow night.

But instead, I stare at the total on the little pop up screen. And it stares right back. Illuminated in neon green, **29.96** is clear as day. Okay, it's not like I don't have the money for it. I don't have anything less than a hundred bucks on me right now. But do I really want to spend thirty bucks on _hair dye_? Especially when after tomorrow night, money is going to be so important to me?

 _Professional. Color will NEVER fade! Long lasting. Get up to six months worth of color! Wash as many times as needed, color will look salon fresh! America's #1 permanent hair dye!_

Denture girl drums her acrylic fingernails along the counter, rather impatiently, so I fish a twenty and a ten from my wallet. Thirty bucks is a lot on hair dye. But if I'm going to go this big… I might as well commit. I need this to last long. I don't know when the next time I'll be around a Sally's Beauty Store might be. Could be months from now. Hell… maybe a year.

"You'll look amazing as a brunette," she rings me up and bags the dye. "You have a really delicate, round face. And _gorgeous_ brown eyes. The brunette will really make them pop. You know my natural hair color is a lot like yours," she leans toward me and shoves a luscious lock of her fire engine red hair in my face. "It's that light brown color, sort of a dirty blonde? Can't really see it much now, but. Brunette will look _amazing_ on you. Trust me."

"Yeah, I…," I clear my throat, then lick my lips. They should be lubricated for this lie. "Just wanted to go darker for the winter, you know. Darker in the winter, lighter in the summer?"

"Totally!" She tears the receipt off and hands it to me. "You take care and have a good day. Come back anytime!"

"You too," I loop the plastic bag on my wrist and shake my head at the four pennies she's trying to offer. "You keep the change."

I'm trying to imagine myself as a brunette and I'm not sure I can. I guess maybe it won't be that drastic. My natural color isn't too far off of brunette. At waist length, my hair is maybe a shade or two off of chestnut brown. A really deep chocolate brown is what I've got in my bag. Let's hope it works wonders. I've gotta wait until tomorrow night to find out.

I wonder if I'll miss anything about Maryland. I wonder if I'll miss the snowflakes collecting in my hair or the air that's crisp and dry in the winters. I wonder if I'll miss the simplicity of being able to walk down the street and end up at a Dunkin Donuts, or being able to look out my bedroom window and see clear into Mrs. Dixon's yard. Or who knows? Maybe I'll end up some place where the weather is exactly like Maryland weather, some place that has corner stores and donut shops on every end of the street, somewhere with more neighbors. I could end up anywhere after tomorrow.

I don't exactly know where I'm going, but any place is better than where I am.

" 'Scuse me," I mumble to the woman I nearly run into coming out of the automatic doors.

"Oh, Mrs. Stadler!" she retorts, and my face drops.

 _Well, I know this is one thing about this life that I won't miss. I don't think I'll ever quite get used to people knowing who I am when I have no idea who they are._

"Hello," I put on my best fake-friendly voice possible and force this woman a smile. Her face is familiar. Her sunken blue eyes, curly gray hair. I know her face… but her name? Beats me. "Nice to you see you again, Ms…"

"Hendrix," she smiles so hard that her thin little lips look like they might crack, but she offers a hand that I shake. "My Tommy works with Paul. Fine, fine surgeon Paul is turning out to be. You must be so proud. And congratulations!"

"Oh, of course. Tom Hendrix's wife, nice to see you again. I haven't - wait, congratulations? On what?"

"Tommy told me the news. That you and Mr. Stadler will be expanding the family here shortly? I know it's still early, but Paul was really excited when he told!" she pulls back the fabric of her peacoat and shows me how the fabric on her silky blouse is stretched across her swollen abdomen. "It's such a beautiful thing. I can't wait to meet the new addition. You're not showing at all. You can't be more than, what? Two months?"

"Yeah," I smile a very awkward smile that I just can't help. "Something like that. So… yeah, I've gotta get going but it was so nice speaking to you. I hope we can catch up soon!"

I stuff my hands into the pockets of my own peacoat and walk so fast down the sidewalk that my boots crunch the snow beneath my feet. My cheeks are so cold that the tears burn a hot trail as they flow.

I have to admit…

I really didn't think Paul was serious about wanting a baby so soon. But if he's telling people that I'm already pregnant, he must be planning on it happening soon. He must be planning on getting me pregnant soon. He must be planning on having sex with me again soon. He must be planning on _raping_ me again, soon.

I promised myself I wouldn't rush it. I told myself I needed ample time to prepare, ample time to keep this from failing, ample time to execute this the right way so I can be gone once and for all.

But if he plans on doing this again to me soon….

Then I think I have to move everything up.

This isn't happening tomorrow night.

I've gotta move everything to tomorrow morning...when he leaves for work.

* * *

 _November 26_

 _I have a plan. I came up with one the other night while Paul slept._

 _I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I'll mention it now just in case. I do that a lot. Lie awake while Paul sleeps, I mean. I know it sounds crazy, but there's something about staring at the ceiling fan while it turns around and round in a circle that gets my mind going. It's when I do my best thinking. It's the only moment I ever feel like I'm truly alone._

 _There's something peaceful about that. Something peaceful about the world at 4:30 in the morning. It's like you're the only one awake while the rest of the world sleeps. And everything is silent. Everything is suspended. And you're the only person on the planet in that moment in time. I swear, it's magical._

 _So while I was doing my best thinking, I came up with a plan. It was after I finally mustered up the courage to go on that exact same website Karolee was on during our session the other day. The one with the definition. As the things I learned from that website… the amount of information I got… well, I don't think anything could surmount that._

 _It wasn't supposed to happen for another day. I was supposed to give myself enough time. But things are dire now. I need to get out soon. So here I am, writing my last letter as Brooke to you._

 _I'm leaving._

 _I told Hannah today. I was helping her shove ricotta cheese into ravioli for dinner and she asked me if I was sad. I told her that I wasn't, but just like the Hannah I know and love, she knew I was lying. She called me right out on it, too. Like an idiot, I asked her how she knew. And she told me how different I was. Not just tonight, but in general. And I swear, tonight was the first time in my entire life I've felt like somebody knew the real me. The one that's beneath all the fancy Chanel purses, the Fendi stockings and picture-perfect housewife image. Hannah told me that she remembered the old me. The one who used to smile with her eyes and not just her tired, worn out lips. The one who laughed from her stomach and not forced from the throat. She says she remembered a time where I talked about Paul and my face would light up. Now, I flinch at the mention of his name._

 _I didn't plan on telling anybody. I planned on planning my plan, executing my plan, and being proud of my plan when it surely worked. But the more I thought about it, the more I listened to Hannah tell me all the things he's taken from me - about the fire that he snuffed out - I realized that if I owed an explanation of a disappearance to anyone… it would be Hannah._

 _Tomorrow morning, at 7:45 a.m., I will be gone. He'll be just pulling into the parking lot at the hospital, and I will be on that train, just riding and going to wherever I go. With nothing more than the $695 I've saved from him, and the clothes on my back. I won't have much. But I'll have my freedom._

 _And when his Rolls Royce wheels pull up in the driveway tomorrow evening at 6:30 on the dot, he won't think there's anything wrong. He'll see my car - the one he so **generously** bought for me - parked in the same place, and he'll figure everything's the same. But I won't be here. And he will be mad. He will call my phone, only to find it ringing in the nightstand drawer on my side of the bed._

 _And he'll hear water running in the bathroom, and he'll calm down. He'll figure I'm just in the shower, but he'll come inside to check. And he'll call my name through the steam. He'll call it five times and won't receive an answer. And when he turns the shower off, he'll finally see that I'm not there._

 _And he'll go crazy. He'll go nuts. He'll wreck the house that he expects Claudia to clean up._

 _He'll call the banks. He'll call every single bank in town to see if I made any recent withdrawals. But the joke will be on him because when he goes to the kitchen, he'll find "my" credit cards stacked and held together with a rubberband on the island._

 _And then, he'll probably cry. Probably go upstairs and clear my closets, then burn my clothes. He'll want to teach me a lesson. He'll want to make me cry if I come back._

 _But the joke will be on him…_

 _Because I'll already be gone._

 _I hope you aren't too confused that I've stopped signing my name. But I don't want you to call me Brooke anymore._

 _For now, you can call me Jo._


	7. A Little Bit Stronger

_"Stadler."_

 _"Where'd the husband go?"_

You know those few hazy seconds in the moments between when your eyes open and your brain catches up? Like in the morning when you wake up from the previous night's sleep, and you wake up feeling so well rested, so refreshed, so comfortable that you've convinced yourself you're probably still dreaming?

In those split seconds before you come crashing back down to reality, the world seems still. It seems like the rest of it stopped, just once in time and waited for you to blink your eyes and catch up to it. Those split seconds are precious. Those split seconds should be savored.

 _"Cafeteria. He's been here all night, hasn't left her side. Morrison's finally convinced the guy to grab himself a breakfast burrito."_

I wake up before my eyes open… And the way I'm feeling is **nothing** like those split seconds. The way I'm feeling is like when you have that dream that you're falling, and you can feel the air rushing around you as you plummet to your death. And usually, you wake up before you hit the ground. And you wake up with your heart pounding so hard that you can hear it in your ears, you wake up with sweat stains on your t-shirt and your hair sticking to your forehead. And you sit up and look around and try to make sense of what the hell you see.

Well, in my case, I don't think I've waken up. I think I hit the ground. And I keep having this dream over and over and over again.

Despite the fact that my eyelids feel like someone's dropped ten pound weights on them, I force them open anyway. And to my surprise, it hurts. That's something I never thought I'd say. I never thought I'd see the day where I could say that it hurts to blink. But it does, and I have to do it to clear the fuzziness away from my eyes.

The more I blink, the clearer they both become. One blonde, one brunette. The blonde shorter than the other. They both don powder blue scrubs and stand at a countertop near a sliding glass door. They whisper, they try to be quiet. But they're fruitless because save for the sounds of something beeping in tandem with my breathing, I can hear everything they say.

This time when I blink, piping hot tears spill out the corners of my eyes and dribble down to my earlobes. I don't know why I'm crying, but I am. It feels like crying is what I should do. It feels like it's the only option I have. Even licking my lips is pointless because when I try, my tongue hits something smooth and cold. Like hard shiny plastic.

A tube?

The metallic taste of blood dances on my tongue and I can't seem to peel it away. You know how when you're little and you lose a tooth? And no matter how hard you try, you just can't seem to stop your tongue from being drawn to the bloody empty space? I can't peel my tongue away from the gash that seems to be in my lip.

 _"Must've been one hell of a "car" accident. It looks like she got ran over by a pickup truck."_

 _"I'll say. She got the worst of it though. Not a scratch on him. There's not a single drop of-"_

The blonde stops talking as soon as the brunette nudges her elbow into her ribcage. Both their eyes fall on me like the silence falls flat in my ears. And for some reason, more tears creep out of my eyes at their gazes. I can see it in their eyes; they pity me. But what for?

"Mrs. Stadler," the blonde makes her voice that real fake soothing kind of voice, like she's talking to a baby, and I want to punch her. So much that my hands involuntarily curl themselves up into fists… fists that I immediately unfold because ouch. Why are my hands so sore? Why are they so weak? "I'm Tara Dawson… I'm the nurse on your case? And this is my assistant, Pauletta. We've been taking care of you since you've gotten out of surgery."

 _Surgery?_

My tongue prods the tube still stuffed down my throat. Pauletta flinches at the noise that comes out of my mouth and I can't even blame her because I didn't even recognize it. I don't even know if that was me. It sounded like some sort of baby animal, a helpless one, just begging to be saved.

"Would you like me to remove the tube?" Tara asks, but she's already working on getting it out before I can even nod my answer.

Why am I not surprised that nodding hurts too?

"You had quite the nasty little accident there, didn't you?" Tara's gentle with the way she peels the tape off my cheek. I feel bad for wanting to punch her a second ago. "I can't tell you how lucky you are to be here. Dr. Coop said you had some of the worst injuries he's seen in his entire career. Someone up above must really be lookin' out for you."

"I-I-," I don't even know what to call that, because it's not a whisper. It's lower than a whisper. Weaker than a whisper. I can't even talk.

"You shouldn't try to talk for at least five minutes after we remove the tube," Pauletta's hands crowd my face and I close my eyes, only to find that she's adjusting something else. And that's how I find that I also have a tube up my nose. "Would you like some water?"

"Here," Tara picks up a small pink Dixie cup and holds it to my lips. "See how this helps."

I must've been out for quite sometime. My body's been dormant for a while. Because when I sip the water and it burns going down my throat, the rest of my body feels cool. It runs through my chest like an open river. My throat is on fire but my body feels good.

"Now," Tara clasps her hands together once I finish the water and she pulls a flashlight from her breast pocket. It hurts when she pulls my eyelid up and looks into my eye with it. "Can you tell me your name? And possibly what day it is?"

"I-I'm Brooke," I finally try to sit up but there's no use. "Wh-Where are my legs…?"

"We gave you a spinal block, sweetie. Just to keep you numb. Your legs are right here… honey, see?" Tara pulls the blankets back and shows me but this is far too much.

I try sitting up again and when I crumble into my pillow… why?

"Why can't I move? No, I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here, I shouldn't be here right now, I really should-"

"Mrs. Stadler, I need you to remain calm."

 _What happened to me? Why am I here? Where's Paul? Why am I here? What did I need surgery on? Why can't I feel my legs? Why are the only things I can feel on my body my arms and fingers? What about my legs?_

"Her heart rate's going way up," Pauletta starts throwing herself into a panic. She steps away and lets Tara handle it.

 _Why is she panicking? If anyone should be panicking, it's me! I'm the one lying here. I'm the one that's been in some sort of accident! I'm the one who doesn't know what's going on! I should be the one panicking! Why won't anybody tell me what's going on?!_

"Should we sedate her?

"We're gonna have to, she's ripping her stitches open."

And just like that… everything goes blurry again.

But before I close my eyes, I make myself well aware of my surroundings. Before I pass out, my eyes lock on the sign out in the hallway.

 **INTENSIVE CARE UNIT.**

* * *

 _It's like a scene straight out of one of those Lifetime movies. One of those movies about the suburbs. The husband rushing around with his coffee thermos in hand, tie still not done up correctly. And the wife is in the kitchen scraping eggs onto a plate so he can chow down before work. The only thing that's missing is the cute pair of children to bring this wholesome image together._

 _"I'll be home around seven, Brooke," Paul's voice is throaty, like he's coming down with some sort of illness. I cringe when he presses his lips to my forehead, but continue fixing his eggs up on the plate anyway. "Oh, and I'm thinking lamb for dinner. Okay?"_

 _"Mhm, lamb's fine with me," I nod while I put his plate onto the table. Like a perfectly choreographed routine, I turn to him, he moves his arms out of my way, and I start to tie his tie. It's not a clip on. It's one of the ones I actually have to manually tie myself. I had to learn how to… just for him. I taught myself from a YouTube video._

 _I guess I can tie his tie one last time. I won't be here to do it tomorrow. This time tomorrow, I'll be somewhere far, far away. Somewhere that he'll never be able to find me. I can tie his tie and fix his eggs and spit shine his shoes and keep my head down and obey like a good little trophy wife. Just for today. Since it's my last day._

 _"Don't forget to pick up your dry cleaning on your lunch break," I smile at him._

 _"I won't, I set that reminder on my phone." He picks his coffee back up and takes a sip. "I'm gonna get going. Make sure you drink a couple glasses of water today… you're looking a bit round in the middle."_

 _"But your breakfast is ready," I point to the eggs. "Sunny side up, side of cheese. Just the way you like them."_

 _"I'm not feeling eggs this morning. I'm running late, I gotta go."_

 _I watch his back as he struts up the hallway, thermos and briefcase in hand. Normally, I'd be annoyed. Usually him not eating the eggs I just slaved over the stove and made for him would really set me off. But today, I just don't care._

 _Now that he's gone…_

 _I kneel down in front of the sink and open up the cabinet. Time to set this plan in motion._

 _I grab the box of hair dye and turn it around so I can read the directions. It says I have to let it sit in my hair for at least an hour… I can do that. I have an hour to spare. I can get my stuff all packed and by the time I'm done my hour will be up and I'll wash it out and I'll still be able to make it to the train station and catch that 9:00 train. I'll make it in plenty of time._

 _The finish line is so close I can taste it. I can taste my freedom. It's almost within reach. There's a voice inside my head saying that I'll never get there but there's a stronger feeling in the pit of my stomach that just knows I'm about to be free. I'm about to be on this train… and my life is going to be so far behind me. He'll never find me again. He'll forever be looking for a Brooke Stadler. He'll never know to look for -_

 _"Brooke, I meant to tell you that I -," his voice booms behind me, so loud that I jump and stuff the hair dye box behind my back._

 _I didn't even hear him come back in…_

* * *

"Mrs. Stadler?"

This time, it's a voice that awakens me. And that voice belongs to neither Tara nor Pauletta. This voice belongs to a taller nurse. One with short, curly black hair. When my eyes snap open, she's the first thing I see. She's hovering over me. Pill bottle and Dixie cup in hand.

"So sorry to wake you, but it's time for your antibiotic. If you'd prefer liquid into your IV instead of swallowing, then-"

"No, it's fine," I mumble and to my surprise, I can actually talk. My throat still hurts quite a bit, but at least I can talk. And I can sit up, too. And I can feel my legs. "How long have I been asleep?" I ask after I swallow the pill.

"Just for a few hours. Long enough for us to transfer you out of the ICU," she replies and checks my monitors. "Take it easy around your abdomen. The nurses on the shift before me said you tore your incision site open."

It's not until she says that when I realize I have a large bandage just below my bellybutton. I wrinkle my eyebrows and I don't even have to speak before she knows what I'm about to ask.

"You had a few splintered ribs and some internal bleeding that we had to take care of. You're really lucky to be alive, Mrs. Stadler. I've seen car accidents do a lot less damage than this, and the patient doesn't survive. You're one of the lucky ones," her eyes read clear pity but behind them is a sense of sorrow or secrecy. Like she feels bad, but knows something I don't know.

"...Do you know anything about my accident? I can't seem to remember much of anything… not even getting into the car..."

"You and your husband were driving and he swerved to avoid a deer and the car smashed into a guardrail. You were pretty banged up on the passenger's side. I guess the airbags didn't deploy. At least that's what your husband was told."

I look down at the knit wool blanket spread across my lap and try to make sense of all of this. So Paul and I were in an accident… I don't even remember getting into the car and I apparently was in a bad accident… apparently, I almost died… because me and Paul… were in an accident?

"How's Paul? Is he… okay?"

"Oh yes, he's fine. You took the brunt of it. Mr. Stadler is just fine, don't worry. He's been waiting here at your side since he brought you in."

"He brought me in?"

"He drove the car to the hospital because he was so worried about you. He didn't want to risk waiting for an ambulance. He was doing his own compressions on you as we wheeled you into surgery. He was so upset we wouldn't let him come into the O.R. He really loves you."

My jaw starts to tremble. ...Maybe he really does love me. Maybe…

Maybe I've got it all wrong. What am I doing here? What am I thinking? Just this morning, I was going to leave him… I was ready to leave him. But he was doing emergency procedures on me in order to keep me alive. He drove a wrecked car to the hospital so I wouldn't die… and this morning, I planned on leaving him. What am I doing? What kind of person am I? He really does love me. He's just bad at showing it. But maybe I should cut him a break… maybe I shouldn't be so quick to jump ship. Maybe I shouldn't just abandon him.

Just because he doesn't love me the way I want him to love me doesn't mean he doesn't love me with everything he has… right? He loves me the best way he knows how…

"Where is he?" I wipe my tears with my thumb. "Is he here?"

"He actually just left. He ran home to grab his cell phone charger and his other credit card. He should be back shortly."

I just nod my head and wipe my tears some more. I don't have anything else to say about that. I disgust myself for even thinking about leaving him…

"Can I use the bathroom? Or do I have a catheter?" I ask.

"No, no catheter. You can certainly use the restroom. Here, I'll help you."

I didn't catch her name, but she's so sweet for helping me up. She helps me out of the bed, drapes my arm over her shoulder and nearly carries me to the wooden door in the corner of my room.

"I'll be out in the hall updating your chart. Just give me a shout if you need anything."

She deposits me into the bathroom and shuts the door behind herself, leaving me alone. And through the darkness, I have to feel around for the light switch.

The lights flicker on and bring the room to life. I slowly start to drag my aching feet over to the toilet, but something catches the corner of my eye. So I turn toward the mirror and face what it is.

And through the bad bruises - through the purple ring around my eye, the swollen puffy redness of my cheeks, the dried blood around my nostril, the swolleness of my jaw, the fingerprint bruises on my neck - … I don't even recognize the person in the mirror. I don't even look like myself. I don't even look like Brooke.

No wonder I don't remember the accident. There wasn't one. And anybody with half a brain knows these aren't car accident injuries.

Every doctor in this building fucking knows it. Every doctor in this building knows how I got this way. Every doctor in this building knew who was responsible as soon as he brought me in. That's why everybody's been talking around it. That's why everyone looks at me with suspicious pity. Everyone knows what he did to me… and nobody would tell me.

...What did he do to me?

 _God, I can't remember. I can't remember anything..._

...How soon will he be back?

 _Not soon enough._

…And where's the nearest train station?

 _Nothing's too far._

...I can sign myself out of here, right?

 _You bet your sweet ass I can._


End file.
